


Lights Out

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PTSD!Dean, Post-Purgatory, Season/Series 08, Sibling Incest, lbr there's vague inklings of plot because that's me, pwp i guess, the sad boys (are back in town), they switch but bottom dean in this instance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 14:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: The Winchesters do a lot with nothing.





	Lights Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dugindeep (hotsauce)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/gifts).



> Written for Masquerade 2018. Prompt: 
> 
> "they only fuck with the lights off so they can pretend this isn’t weird"

The Winchesters pack a mean punch with nothing. It’s a habit patchworked from years of roughing it and scraping buy.

Anything in an innocuous motel room can be a deadly weapon in Sam’s long fingers. A near-empty fridge in a kitchenette can do for a meal as long as Dean really rummages around and does his “don’t-ask-what’s-in-this” magic. The silence is heavy-laden with the words the two of them don’t have to say.

The dark is just another whole lot of nothing.

Always has been. 

Sam used to crawl into Dean’s bed when the storm roared outside, and Dean groaned but let Sam stay. And if they were quiet and still enough, Dad didn't wake up and tell them to knock it off ‘cause they were way too old for that sleepover crap. 

Sam still crawls into Dean’s bed, but for a very different reason now. Dean still keeps quiet, even though there’s no one to wake up. Hasn’t been for a very long time. But he’s still wary of making too much noise, as if the air itself is gonna judge and suffocate him. 

The list of things that would make this too real is ten miles long and three miles wide. 

A loud boom and crackle of a thunder outside make Dean shudder. These noises aren’t anything like the noises in Purgatory, but they’re loud enough to kick his alarm systems in overdrive.

Sam splays his fingers on Dean’s chest and shushes him, leaning in close. It must be some kind of a law that at any given moment, one of the Winchesters has to get twitchy of lightning and thunder. Sam had a good excuse when he was scared, though. He was barely seven years old back then.

Dean doesn’t have an excuse, being in his mid-thirties. There weren’t even any storms in Purgatory. In fact, there wasn’t much of any kind of weather in Purgatory except for this eternal murky slog like when you get up way too early in fall and there’s mist outside and it looks like it’s gonna rain. But it never did. The place was stuck in stasis, in this eternal dog eat dog loop.

Sam doesn’t say “relax”, but his insistently pushing against Dean’s shoulder fingers do, and it’s not like Dean can relax on command, okay? Not when his idiotic brain seems to think the wall themselves are stocked full of monsters, scratching and scraping at it. 

Those are just rats.

Dean’s still thinking ten paces ahead in case one of those suckers manages to chew its way out.  
Sam runs his hand along Dean’s scalp, scratching at it, soothing-like. Sam’s fingers are like salve on a burn, not a total game-changer, but it calms out the ache enough to breathe. 

The air’s thick with darkness. The motel’s neon light is pretty dim, and the joint itself is on the very edge of town. The dark is a good look on in this room, too. Hides the peeling wallpaper and the ugly painting above Sam’s bed, hides the weird stains on the floral comforters and the weirder ones on the carpet. All that’s left is a neon reflection on TV and the neon tangled in Sam’s hair as he slowly pulls his henley off.

Dean exhales, and the night eagerly swallows his breath. 

Sam tosses the henley over onto his bed. It lands with a quiet rustle. Dean watches him, hands on Sam’s hips and tries to think of the fourth way he could possibly save Sam’s neck if someone burst into the room now. And then Sam grinds down and Dean’s not thinking much of anything anymore. Head tossed, he chokes on a gasp, but Sam’s hip-stutter is relentless, and even though he took that henley off, he’s still way too dressed. Sam seems to pick up on Dean’s look because he’s rushing to get himself pantsless. 

It takes Dean’s fumbling hans three tries to pop the button on his own jeans, and, really, he should maybe wear something that’s easier to get out of to bed, but it doesn’t feel good sleeping in any other way but fully dressed, save the boots. Doesn’t feel right.

He takes his clothes off army-quick. They’re not big on foreplay. Or kissing. Or anything else that would tip this over the precarious balance of getting each other off in silence and in the dark.

Sam’s already there with slicked-up fingers by the time Dean manages to pull his second sock off, nude now. It’s like a well-oiled machine at this point. They’re like this in battle, Dean ducking when Sam needs to shoot over his head, Dean catching a knife Sam tosses over in midair by the handle and not the blade part, don’t try this at home. Don't try anything they do at home.

They’ve been fighting for decades, they’ve been fucking for months, but fucking is easier.

Certainly less deadly, unless you count the little death in the end (and if they did ever talk about it, that’s definitely what Sam would call it, the little posh bastard).

Sam reaches in between Dean’s legs and Dean spreads them wider. Sam pushes in where Dean squeezes around him, already eager, always boyscout-ready when it comes to this. 

Sam shakes his head, trying to get his hair from falling in his face. Must be such a bitch and a half to handle, but it’s fucking yankable, so Dean’s not gonna complain. Not right now. 

Sam’s fingers push and pull and corkscrew. Maximum efficiency, no beating around the bush. Dean grunts, valiantly biting down on his bottom lip, and arches into Sam’s touches, and says, “c’mon, c’mon, S—” but cuts himself off before that S can turn into his most-said syllable of a name, ‘cause they don’t have names right now.

The darkness hides them. They’re not brothers, not Sam and Dean, not the guys that are supposed to save the world and fail at it all the fucking time. Just two vague human-shaped beings trying to make each other feel good when nothing else does.

Sam pumps his fingers for the last time. He gets Dean ready like he cleans a gun, mechanical and precise and avoiding digging for the trigger too early on.

Dean’s already primed to shoot all the same. 

Sam yanks him by the hip. Dean grabs him by the neck. Sam’s pulse beats against his fingers. It quickens when Sam starts pushing in, fluttering like the guy’s losing his V-card all over again, even though he’s no virgin, Dean knows, he’s seen as much through, Sam doesn’t have a virginal inch in his body, all of it mapped out by Dean’s hungry fingers and some of it mapped out by Dean’s rock hard dick. 

He’s the one pierced right now, though. Sam’s pushing him down into the bed, all tall and heavy, his perpetually-hunched shoulders unfurling at last. Sam’s so much bigger than he’s trying to seem (down there included, but not just that), always making himself look as unassuming and gentle as possible. But right now, while he’s balls deep in Dean’s ass and hovering above him like a shadow, he’s taking up so much of the dark Dean can see.

And for once, he honest to god doesn’t feel like danger’s coming. The only thing coming is the two of them. (Hopefully.) 

Sam slides in and out before picking up the pace. Dean digs his nails into Sam’s back, trying to hold back, can’t leave marks, fuck no— and yet he can’t fucking stop, ‘cause there’s no stopping Sam either, and Sam’s stupid hair is flopping in Dean’s face, breath-close, and Dean can make out way too much of Sam’s face, the furrowed brow, the spitshine on his bottom lip.

That line they keep toeing is so damn fragile. Might as well be a salt line, and they’re no ghosts. Sam’s all flesh and blood and body heat, jerking both of them back and forth on the bed as the headboard hammers the wall, the painting frame rattling. 

It’s too much noise, too much warmth, too much of everything, but they still got the dark on their side, even as Dean leans up when Sam ducks his head down, and his hair tickles the side of Dean’s face as their lips touch at last, sliding against each other in a smeared kiss, a rare little treat they only indulge in when the going gets really rough.

It’s not a great kiss as far as kisses go, too sloppy and rushed. Objectively, Dean’s had better. Good thing that what makes a kiss awesome isn’t all objectivity and painting by numbers.

Sam’s panting above him, and Dean’s pretty sure he can see a blush spread across his nose and cheeks, so he closes his eyes which makes for best darkness, nothing but Sam’s dick still pounding away at him, nothing but the two of them and this crappy bed in a crappy motel.

The darkness can’t hide how heavy Sam’s breaths are, though. Or how hard he comes, flooding Dean’s insides. Can’t hide how gentle Sam’s fingers are when he smooths out Dean’s sweaty sex hair.

Dean jerks himself off to completion—doesn’t think about Sam’s fingers instead of his too much, they don’t do that, not even in the dark, ‘cause it doesn’t mean a thing, right, and they’re not some kind of weirdos who jerk each other off or anything.

Sam slinks away to his bed before Dean can come down from the afterglow. 

Dean sleeps almost well for once.

\---

Dean makes them breakfast from the leftovers in the morning.

Sam doesn’t apologize for never looking for him in Purgatory. (Not needed, not anymore.) Dean doesn’t mention a thing about the shit he saw down there, about the coil always woven tight inside him, about the three possible deaths he sees for them in the next ten minutes.

Sam’s hand just happens to linger on Dean’s shoulder when he finishes his breakfast and passes Dean by.

Dean’s heart just happens to feel a little lighter.

The Winchesters can do a lot with nothing.

Sam changes and Dean tries so hard not to stare at the scratches on his back.

The night couldn’t roll around soon enough.


End file.
